care, for her husband’s extreme solicitude for the infant’s welfare had convinced her that he was its father.  On one occasion, when their house was in flames, Quixada rescued the infant before he saved his wife, “although Magdalen knew herself to be dearer to him than the apple of his eye.”  From that time forth she altered her opinion, and believed the mysterious child to be of lofty origin.  The boy grew up full of beauty, grace, and agility, the leader of all his companions in every hardy sport.  Through the country round there were none who could throw the javelin, break a lance, or ride at the ring like little Juan Quixada.  In taming unmanageable horses he was celebrated for his audacity and skill.  These accomplishments, however, were likely to prove of but slender advantage in the ecclesiastical profession, to which he had been destined by his Imperial father.  The death of Charles occurred before clerical studies had been commenced, and Philip, to whom the secret had been confided at the close of the Emperor’s life, prolonged the delay thus interposed.  Juan had already reached his fourteenth year, when one day his supposed father Quixada invited him to ride towards Valladolid to see the royal hunt.  Two horses stood at the door—­a splendidly caparisoned charger and a common hackney.  The boy naturally mounted the humbler steed, and they set forth for the mountains of Toro, but on hearing the bugles of the approaching huntsmen, Quixada suddenly halted, and bade his youthful companion exchange horses with himself.  When this had been done, he seized the hand of the wondering boy and kissing it respectfully, exclaimed, “Your Highness will be informed as to the meaning of my conduct by his Majesty, who is even now approaching.”  They had proceeded but a short distance before they encountered the royal hunting party, when both Quixada and young Juan dismounted, and bent the knee to their monarch.  Philip, commanding the boy to rise, asked him if he knew his father’s name.  Juan replied, with a sigh, that he had at that moment lost the only father whom he had known, for Quixada had just disowned him.  “You have the same father as myself,” cried the King; “the Emperor Charles was the august parent of us both.”  Then tenderly embracing him, he commanded him to remount his horse, and all returned together to Valladolid, Philip observing with a sentimentality that seems highly apocryphal, that he had never brought home such precious game from any hunt before.

This theatrical recognition of imperial descent was one among the many romantic incidents of Don John’s picturesque career, for his life was never destined to know the commonplace.  He now commenced his education, in company with his two nephews, the Duchess Margaret’s son, and Don Carlos, Prince-royal of Spain.  They were all of the same age, but the superiority of Don John was soon recognized.  It was not difficult to surpass the limping, malicious, Carlos, either in physical graces or intellectual accomplishments; but the graceful; urbane, and chivalrous Alexander, destined afterwards to such wide celebrity, was a more formidable rival, yet even the professed panegyrist of the Farnese family, exalts the son of Barbara Blomberg over the grandson of Margaret Van Geest.